Poetry Writing

on the floor

I’ve moved out of my bed and
onto the floor.
More room for the thoughts to blossom
and boom like fireworks and celebration guns,
illuminating the night and
forcing you from your bed.
You dash to the windows and
see the sparks rain down.
The sparks never land, you know.
They dissipate just moments before
the ground takes shape.
They stay,
hovering in space,
crawling in the air,
dancing in your dreams
like the sugarplums
in your youth.
I spread myself onto the floor
and watch the sparks above my head.
They tickle my nose,
a loose ember catching in my hair,
setting it ablaze.
Undulations, tribulations, tabulations,
formulations of forever and a day.
Formulations of a single moment,
then twenty,
then a stream of consciousness
spilling out onto the pages.
It’s two in the morning
and I’m out of bed
and on the floor,
laying in a garden of words,
watching the stars fall to Earth.
via *

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